


Roses and Arrows

by Ginipig



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Casual attitude toward suicidal thoughts, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Injuries, Near Death Experience Confession Trope, Pining, Reference to that time Zevran wanted to die, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26300161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/pseuds/Ginipig
Summary: Zevran flirts with everyone — it is part of his roguish Antivan charm. Everyone, that is, except a certain royal bastard who reminds him too much of someone he loved and lost. But an instinctive decision in the heat of battle brings him face-to-face with his feelings for Alistair, and he must make a decision: Love and happiness? Or loneliness and regret?
Relationships: Alistair/Zevran Arainai
Comments: 18
Kudos: 49
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	Roses and Arrows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barbex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex/gifts).



> barbex, your list of likes consisted of "fluff, smut, emotions, pining, flirting, dialogue." I think I hit them all (except for the smut), and I hope you like it!

Having finished his circuit around the perimeter of their camp, Zevran headed back to the fire, where Alistair sat, back to him and head bowed.

Something inside him twinged. Alistair was always so talkative, yet as they’d begun their guard shift together, he’d been eerily silent.

Zevran hadn’t realized how much he appreciated Alistair’s constant chatter until it suddenly and unceremoniously ceased.

So he gracefully settled himself next to Alistair and spoke. “Nothing amiss along the perimeter. You do not feel any darkspawn nearby?”

Alistair looked up absently. “Hmm?” Then he blinked and closed his far hand around … something, hiding it behind his thigh. “Uh, no. No darkspawn closeby, at least for now.” He looked up at the admittedly beautiful stars twinkling in the Fereldan sky and said softly, “Looks like it might be a quiet night for a change.”

Zevran narrowed his eyes. Alistair was not normally so introspective.

Aloud, he said, “For a change,” and flashed a grin, bumping Alistair’s shoulder with his own for emphasis.

Alistair’s mouth only quirked gently, his gaze never leaving the sky.

Now Zevran frowned in concern. Something was wrong.

Or perhaps something was right. Because Alistair looked so sweet, so peaceful, so lovely in the soft glow of the firelight, and Zevran could have watched him for hours.

But before he’d even finished the thought, his heart clenched as memories curled around it and squeezed.

Rinna, lamenting how the brightness of Antiva City’s lights obscured the stars.

Rinna, smiling softly when he whispered, “I love you,” into her ear.

Rinna, tearfully begging him to believe that she would never betray them, betray _him_ , as Taliesen sliced the knife across her throat and his own heart.

The jolt of pain jerked him back to reality, and he marveled at how close he’d drawn to Alistair in only those few short moments. He attempted to lean away slowly, unobtrusively, putting as much space as possible between them without actually moving from the spot he occupied.

Staring into the fire, he tried and failed to swallow the burn at the back of his throat, to blink back the stinging in his eyes. The vow he’d made that day when Tabris sheathed her daggers and offered him her hand was getting more and more difficult to keep.

 _Never again_. And certainly not with a funny, clever, and kind royal bastard, even if this one had a handsome yet adorably boyish face, with freckles scattered across tawny skin like those stars that twinkled in the sky, eyes that glittered almost golden in the firelight, and short auburn hair that Zevran longed to run his fingers through.

Just because Tabris had foiled his initial mission by offering him a chance didn’t mean he would willingly submit his heart to such torture again. Not even for Alistair.

There were easier ways to kill himself.

“Zev, can I ask you something?”

Alistair’s voice sent a jolt through his heart as if by magic; the poor, tattered thing thumped too fast against his ribs.

With his cheekiest grin, he turned to find Alistair watching him, expression unreadable. He was pretty sure his smile didn’t waver, and he said, in a surprisingly steady voice, “It would seem that you already have.”

Alistair didn’t smile or smirk or even blink.

Though his heart still thumped, Zevran’s brow now furrowed in concern. “You may ask me anything you wish.” He shrugged and tilted his head, considering. “Whether I choose to answer, now that is a different thing altogether.”

Alistair nodded and looked into the fire. Then he swallowed. “You make, uh, a lot of comments. Comments that are — well, uh — _flirty_ , I guess.”

Ah. Zevran had wondered when this conversation might come up. In truth, he’d rather expected Alistair to go to Leliana, with whom he seemed far more comfortable, if the way they often whispered together around the fire was any indication.

Then again, he and Alistair had grown close in the past weeks. They often found themselves paired with each other during watch shifts, as Tabris and Leliana preferred to spend their shifts off together to increase their private time, Wynne and Oghren enjoyed sharing varied ales on their shifts, Sten didn’t care one way or another, and Morrigan downright refused to keep watch with the mabari, Alistair (and the feeling was mutual), or Zevran — and only because he entertained himself with her increasing annoyance at his every remark.

After everything that happened at Redcliffe, Alistair had needed to talk to _someone_ , and Zevran had an ear and a willingness to listen, which seemed to be a first in Alistair’s life. (And oh, upon their return with the ashes of Andraste, Zevran had been so close to gleefully finishing what Loghain’s mage and the demon started that he’d had to satisfy himself with privately plotting elaborately painful ways for the Arl and Arlessa to meet their ends.) Zevran had then surprised himself by answering some of Alistair’s questions about his own conversation with the Guardian — he hadn’t told him the whole story, of course, but Alistair now knew that he regretted his last mission for the Crows and that he’d come to Ferelden hoping to fail.

So perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that Alistair would come to him. He certainly was not the first person Zevran had ever explained the basics of sex to, and he likely would not be the last. Zevran was neither shy nor embarrassed by the topic, and he was always happy to share information, particularly with men, if for no other reason than to prevent unwanted accidents.

“This is true,” he said to Alistair’s pink neck and face, for Alistair still focused on the fire as if it contained the secret to ending the Blight. “In Antiva we are not so, ah, uncomfortable around the topic of sex.”

Alistair’s color deepened to red now. “Right.”

Zevran waited patiently. These sorts of discussions were delicate, and Alistair in particular had a habit of cracking a joke and changing the topic when a conversation grew uncomfortable.

“You do it with everyone,” Alistair said, and Zevran tried not to snort at the unintended innuendo. “Wynne, Oghren, Morrigan, even Sten. If we stay at an inn, you always find someone to, er, spend the night with. And it’s not a secret that you’ve _spent the night_ with Leliana and Tabris in their tent a few times.”

“I do not believe any of us were attempting to be secretive. Or quiet.” Zevran grinned at the memory. He hadn’t been expecting an invitation, but neither would he have dreamt of refusing those two formidable women. “And I happen to find relaxation and enjoyment in both flirting and the act itself.”

“With everyone but me.”

Alistair’s words were quiet, but they might as well have been a shout in the peace of the night for all Zevran’s heart was concerned. The poor thing ached for pounding as its secret shame — and desire — was so unceremoniously announced to the camp.

Alistair drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms loosely around them. Zevran had only seen him so vulnerable once, when he had told Zevran about Duncan and why he’d answered the Guardian’s question in the affirmative.

“Is it — is it because I’ve never — because I’m —”

“Inexperienced?” Zevran offered.

Alistair nodded vigorously at the fire like it had asked if he wished to remain a Warden rather than take the throne.

Zevran recognized a lifeline when it was offered, and he took it. “There is no shame in inexperience, but I did not wish to make you uncomfortable.” It wasn’t even a lie.

“You won’t.”

Zevran looked up sharply, and Alistair’s face, though still aimed at the fire, was more flushed than Zevran had ever seen it outside of battle — and his occasional dirty dream.

“Every time you flirt with someone,” Alistair whispered. “I wish it was me.”

So did Zevran, Maker help him. His heart leapt with joy, but that icy dread crawled up his spine and wrapped around it, dragging it back down into the depths of its aching memories.

“Because — because it seems like fun and everyone laughs and I want to be a part of it,” Alistair hastily added, but the correction came too late. Zevran had heard what Alistair truly meant, and he couldn’t unhear it. “Not that I’m saying you shouldn’t or you can’t do whatever you want with whoever you want, or that I want you to feel bad about not including me, or that you have to do something that makes you feel uncomfortable …”

Zevran had always found Alistair’s babbling almost unbearably adorable, and now he relished in the familiarity and the precious naivete in that voice (which also haunted a few of his dirty dreams) while he gathered himself to respond.

“I guess I’m just saying that — if you want to, of course, only if you want — I’d like it if you would — if you —”

Alistair sighed out of what Zevran knew to be frustration. Alistair had often lamented he was not as great with words as Zevran was. Zevran always joked that few were, but privately, he was glad that Alistair was so honest; the lessons he’d learned were not worth the education, and he would not wish it on anyone. Least of all Alistair.

“I just … I’d like it,” Alistair finished softly. “If it was from you.”

He finally turned from the fire, those eyes piercing Zevran with a gaze more open, vulnerable, and intense than he’d ever seen from Alistair before.

Zevran found himself unable to speak.

Then Alistair, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling faster than normal, eyes trailing down to Zevran’s mouth, leaned toward him just slightly, and in that moment, Zevran wanted nothing more than to discover what Alistair tasted like.

“Zev,” Alistair whispered, licking his lips. “Can I kiss you?”

The question smacked Zevran across the face as surely as if Alistair had used his hand.

“No!” he snapped, jerking backward.

The surprised heartbreak visible on Alistair’s face was almost enough to change his mind.

Almost.

Because no one, _no one_ , had ever asked him that question before, and it was too much.

He was broken, and he was weak, and he wasn’t strong enough to try again. Zevran didn’t deserve someone like Alistair, and Alistair —

Alistair deserved better than someone like him.

“Maker, Zev, I’m so sorry,” said Alistair, giving Zevran plenty of space and thus proving his point. “I didn’t mean —”

“I cannot,” Zevran said, skittering backward like a giant spider and stumbling to his feet like a drunkard. “I cannot. I am sorry, but I — I cannot.”

“I’ll go.” Alistair jumped to his feet and put his hands out as a shield. “One of us should make another round, and I’ll do it.”

“No, I can — I’d rather —” Zevran said, and damn the royal bastard for his contagious babbling. “Let me. Please.”

He wished the word hadn’t come out so desperate and pleading, because Alistair’s eyes now filled with tears.

“Of course,” said Alistair, dropping his gaze. “I’ll just …” He took a shuddering breath. “I’ll be here, if you need … something,” he finished with a defeated shrug.

Zevran couldn’t stand there and watch one of the last good things he had left in Thedas crumble to dust, so he turned and fled for the perimeter.

He risked only one look back, once he was out of earshot, and there Alistair sat, back to him and head bowed, with his face buried in his hands.

Zevran, focused and determined, walked the perimeter of camp for the rest of their watch. He only returned to the fire when Sten approached and relieved him.

Alistair was gone, replaced by Morrigan intently ignoring him for an ancient black tome. As Zevran passed the place where they’d both sat by the fire, his boot brushed against something soft and red.

A rose.

That, of all the simple things, was too much for him. He scooped it up and hurried to his tent, where he collapsed, trying and failing to will away the pain in his chest that ached with a pressure so great it threatened to explode, or perhaps consume him until nothing remained but a husk of a man that lived only in the strictest sense of the term.

At some point he rolled to his back and stared blankly at the roof of his tent, his mind racing as he attempted to strategize his way out of a mess so unlike any of the expected outcomes of his abandonment the Crows. He was supposed to serve Tabris in exchange for his life, but how could he when he yearned for her Warden companion — too like a dead woman and yet too much his own man, for Zevran admired Alistair even more for his humor and kindness and optimism than for the traits he shared with Rinna.

But most of all, he cursed the foolish sentimentality that had punctured his Crow-indoctrinated control.

For as he clutched Alistair’s rose in spite of — or rather, because of — its thorns, their sting dwarfed by the throbbing in his chest, he finally and fitfully drifted into the Fade with one final thought.

No one had ever given him a flower before.

* * *

“Would you like to talk about what happened?”

Zevran shot Leliana a glance from the corner of his eye. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to walk together and chat in Orlesian — as the only two in the group who could speak it, they usually gossiped or made sarcastic and petty comments about the others — but prying personal questions had never been a subject before.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, _ma cherie_ ,” Zevran said. Only Tabris glanced back at them, likely at his use of the Orlesian endearment. “Much has happened in a rather short time, wouldn’t you say? Why it seems only yesterday that I was hired by Loghain to kill our Grey Wardens, and today we walk side-by-side chattering away in Orlesian.”

“ _Our_ Grey Wardens, is it?” Leliana, well-trained bard as she was, merely cocked an eyebrow. “That is an interesting choice of words. And do not think you can play coy. You know exactly what I am asking.”

She let her gaze wander in front of them to settle on Alistair, who trudged ahead of them, shoulders slumped, head bowed, and silent as the grave.

“The two of you have been thick as thieves lately, yet today …”

Zevran rolled his eyes. “Perhaps you should ask him, if you wish to know so badly.”

Leliana smirked. “Funny. That’s exactly what he said.”

Zevran looked at her sharply. She raised both eyebrows as if in challenge.

He sighed and turned forward again, where Alistair seemed forlorn even from this far back.

A sudden pinch on his arm made him jerk away, returning the glare Leliana sent his way.

“Fix it,” she demanded.

Zevran swallowed painfully and dropped his gaze to his boots. “I do not know that I can.”

“Figure it out,” Leliana said, and she stalked away, coming up beside Alistair and striking up a conversation.

Zevran could not hear whatever they might or might not have discussed over Sten and Oghren’s increasingly vehement debate over the relative merits of great swords and great axes.

And that, thank the Maker, was when the bandits attacked.

* * *

The skirmish — since eight combat experts and a mabari against eleven mediocre bandits could hardly be considered a battle — was over quickly. Tabris expressed regret over the necessity of such violence, but in Zevran’s experience, once knives and arrows started flying, they could not be stopped until one side or the other was defeated or surrendered, and these bandits had not lasted long enough to surrender.

He, Tabris, and Leliana looted the bodies for anything useful while the warriors rested for a few minutes. In the sweltering Fereldan afternoon, Zevran did not envy them the heavy plate they wore, and he always volunteered to search their victims in case he came across anything interesting or unusual.

He had discovered a pouch on the leader of several dozen gold and change — successful bandits, apparently, which would certainly explain their confidence — when he heard a soft rustle in the nearby bushes.

The glistening tip of an arrow — poisoned — protruded just enough from the web of branches that he could see it was pointed straight at the head of — sitting, helmetless — Alistair.

“Archer!” he shouted, though he knew such a vague warning would do little.

And with only a heartbeat to move and even less time to think, Zevran went against every bit of Crow training he’d ever received or given.

He stepped in front of the arrow.

With a timing honed by nearly two decades of constant drilling, he swiped a dagger and sliced the arrow in two. The tail floated harmlessly past him to his right while the still intact head grazed his left side — better than embedding itself in the center of his chest, where it had been aimed.

His second dagger he launched at the archer’s throat, and unlike her arrow, it hit its mark. She collapsed in a spurt of blood just as Zevran swayed and lost his balance.

To his immense surprise, he never hit the ground.

Not that the plate-covered arms were much softer, but at least he didn’t crack his skull.

“Zev!” Alistair said, breathless, as he lowered Zevran to a mostly horizontal position.

He did not, however, let go.

Zevran grinned drunkenly. “Had I known an arrow to the side would see you gallantly sweep me into your arms, I’d have done it much sooner.”

Alistair huffed, “You would,” while his bare hand roved Zevran’s abdomen around the wound. “I don’t understand, you’re barely bleeding, why —”

“Poison.” Zevran reached a hand to point in the direction of the arrow, but it just sort of flopped against Alistair’s breastplate.

Alistair’s eyes widened. “What?” Still holding Zevran in one arm — and Maker, did Zevran wish he had the luxury of appreciating that right now — Alistair reached behind him and held up the point of the arrow.

Zevran recognized the bright teal color amidst the deep red of his own blood. “Adder’s Kiss,” he slurred. He let his head fall against Alistair’s chest, since this would now be his only chance to do so. “No antidote.”

“What? No!” Perhaps it was Zevran’s imagination, but Alistair seemed to clutch him closer. “Wynne! It’s poison!”

Zevran heard shouting, but it grew fainter as he felt the poison course through him. His legs and arms felt heavy now — everything felt heavy.

“Wynne’s going to heal you,” Alistair said, his voice desperate. “She’s the best. You’re going to be okay.”

Though his vision blurred at the edges, he managed a smile for Alistair. “What a change from our first meeting, _mi amor_. I seem to remember you wanting me dead.”

“Only because you tried to kill us. And you haven’t done that in ages.” Maker, his grin, though shaky, was beautiful. Zevran was happy to see it one last time.

Alistair’s hand was cupping his cheek now. Or so he thought; his cheeks were going numb. “Look at me. You’re going to be okay because you have to teach me how to slice an arrow out of the air like that. I won’t believe it wasn’t luck until you show me how to do it.”

“Bad luck. I would never teach something so sloppy.” Zevran managed a chuckle that ended with a sob. The world grew fuzzier by the second, and he had to fix things. “Alistair. Last night, I wasn’t — I should’ve —”

“Don’t talk like that,” Alistair said, and his thumb shook as it stroked Zevran’s cheek. “We’re supposed to — I need you to — _I need you, Zev._ ”

Zevran’s heart shattered, hearing that now, when it was far too late. He blinked away a few tears.

Alistair looked away. “You have to help him! He can’t — _I_ can’t —” He turned back to Zevran, his expression fading from denial to defeat. “No, no, no, not like this.”

Zevran fought to keep his eyes open, to see Alistair to the last. “Better’n before. Least … Crows … didn’t …”

Alistair was crying now, tears streaming down his cheeks. Zevran knew because their faces were so very close now.

“No, Zev, please,” he begged, shaking his head, and Zevran felt it against his own forehead.

Alistair’s face became his mother’s, and then Rinna’s, and Taliesen’s, all crying and begging him.

“I’m sorry,” Zevran said.

Alistair’s face returned. “No, Zev! Stay with me, please!” he shouted, but his voice was so very far away.

“I’m sorry.”

And then everything went dark.

* * *

Zevran blinked his eyes open and moaned at the bright light.

Huh. For the second time in — well, too short a time — he woke up expecting to be dead.

Or rather, he woke up at all, as opposed to … well.

And he was most certainly alive. Or else the Maker had a very cruel sense of humor, which he supposed was not out of the question. His body, for example, felt as if he’d been trampled by a herd of raging druffalo, a definite departure from the promise of the Maker’s bosom.

Ah, well. That was perhaps the only bosom he was quite satisfied with waiting for.

The brightness was less so when he opened his eyes the second time. Far less so. He was, in fact, in a very dark room, lit only by the fire in the grate, which reflected off the stone walls and floor.

Where was he?

As he shifted, underneath the pain he felt a weight on his hand, and what he saw when he looked made his heart stutter.

Alistair sat next to the bed — on the floor, by the looks of it — and had fallen asleep on one arm. The other was free, its hand on Zevran’s, fingers curled tightly over the top, refusing to release even in sleep.

Zevran blinked rapidly at the ceiling and took several deep breaths. Thank the Maker, who had seen fit to allow him to escape death yet again.

He hadn’t missed his chance.

And Alistair was still here.

Zevran simply watched him for a while. His breaths were deep and heavy in sleep, soft snores emanating with every exhale. He looked so young and peaceful, this bastard who could one day rule Ferelden — and he’d be so very good at it, too. Although Zevran couldn’t say he wished for that outcome once the archdemon was dead — and if Tabris and Alistair had their way, it would not come to pass — he could not deny that Alistair’s kindness and optimism would serve him and Ferelden well.

Without releasing their hands, Zevran used his other to run his free hand through Alistair’s auburn hair. Though gritty with sweat, it was as soft as Zevran had imagined, and as his fingers stroked his scalp a few times, Alistair actually let out a soft and impossibly adorable little sigh.

As a test, Zevran squeezed his hand, and Alistair squeezed back without otherwise stirring. Maker, was this what it would be like to sleep with Alistair by his side? He wasn’t sure he had ever wanted anything more.

Except, perhaps, to speak with Alistair now, to prove to himself this was real.

He held on for a few minutes longer, savoring the peace of Alistair sleeping at his bedside before reluctantly bringing it to an end.

Quickly, before he change his mind, he slid his hand from Alistair’s — it wasn’t easy, given the grip Alistair had on it — and stroked Alistair’s cheek with a single finger.

“Alistair. _Mi amor_ …” His voice and throat were scratchy, and he wondered just what had happened to him after he’d lost consciousness.

Alistair moaned and opened and closed his hand, searching for Zevran’s. Before Zevran could speak his name a second time, Alistair let out a desperate, sleep-thickened cry of, “Zev!” and sat up straight.

His cheek was red where it had lain against his sleeve, and a gentle indentation caused by a wrinkle cut through it, as well. He stared at Zevran for a long moment, blinked a few times, and then his eyes widened in recognition.

“Zev!” he gasped, fumbling his way up the bed toward Zevran’s head. “Thank the Maker! How are you feeling?”

The relief in his gaze was so palpable that Zevran’s chest ached, but Zevran would not make him wait for an answer to his question.

With a smile that somehow made his head hurt, he rasped, “I believe my faculties are in order, yet they do not explain the dashing prince sitting vigil at my bedside.”

Alistair’s cheeks pinked, but he grinned nonetheless. “So back to normal, then.”

Zevran wanted to say that this was not, in fact, normal, as he had never flirted in such a way with Alistair before, but he could not find the words, distracted as he was by Alistair and the way his gaze roved up and down Zevran’s face in obvious relief and disbelief.

“You almost died,” Alistair whispered. “I almost — _we_ almost lost you.”

“And yet, I live,” Zevran said, summoning his characteristic smirk. “Truly, my incredible skills surprise even me sometimes.”

He shifted his arms so he could push himself into a sitting position, which unfortunately led to Alistair jumping to his feet in alarm.

“No, don’t move, I was supposed to get Wynne when you woke up so she can look you over.” He backed toward the door while pointing over his shoulder. “I’ll go, uh — I’ll do that now. But don’t move!”

Then he bolted from the room.

Zevran, propped up on his elbows, stared at the door as it closed after him. His emotions were warring with each other, and the relief and fondness he’d felt earlier were now eclipsed by disappointment and, primarily, confusion. Alistair’s reaction seemed out of proportion with concerns for his health or even fear of Wynne.

As he finished pushing himself into a sitting position, he quickly identified the likely answer. Beneath the blankets, he was naked except for his small clothes.

Occasionally, Alistair befuddled him. The man apparently had no qualms about sitting and sleeping at his sickbed, but even the slightest bit of skin had him running from the room not unlike he ran toward darkspawn.

Whereas Zevran was very much the opposite — he didn’t look twice at nakedness, but he would rather die than reveal to anyone any feeling more complicated than arousal.

Unless it was Alistair, of course.

 _Braska_ , this was making his head ache when he could hardly afford it. That was a concern to address later.

He waited patiently like a good little Crow for the healer, and she did not take long.

Wynne entered the room, all business, with Alistair trailing behind her.

She smiled at Zevran as she approached. “It is good to see you awake. You gave us quite the scare.”

Zevran glanced at Alistair and back. “So I have heard.”

At that, Wynne turned to Alistair and crossed her arms. “I thought I told you to wait outside.”

Alistair shrunk back slightly, but stood his ground. “I want to see if he’s fully healed, or if —”

“And you can. When I am finished.”

“But —”

“No _but_ s, young man. I will speak to my patient alone, and you will go eat.” She punctuated the last word with a poke to Alistair’s chest. “Like I’ve been telling you to do since yesterday. Go and eat, and then I _might_ let you in here to visit if I’m satisfied.”

“Ow,” Alistair whined, rubbing his chest like she’d put some real magic behind it — possible, but unlikely, at least where Wynne was concerned. (Morrigan, however …) “Fine. I’ll go. But I’ll be back.”

He probably intended it to sound like a threat, but the idea was laughable in the face of Wynne’s sternness. With a soft, pink-cheeked smile toward Zevran, Alistair turned and left once again.

* * *

Wynne sighed and shook her head. “That boy. I have never seen him so stubborn.” Seemingly uninterested in elaborating, she summoned some sort of yellow magic and asked, “May I?”

Wishing to know more but unwilling to ask, Zevran merely nodded and even pulled back the blankets for her. She closed her eyes, and a gentle warmth drew his attention to his wound for the first time.

The spot where the arrow had grazed him was completely healed. No sign of any injury remained.

“My dear Wynne, you are truly a miracle worker,” he said, poking at the spot in disbelief as well as reassurance. “I rather thought I was a dead man.”

“I am aware. How do you feel?”

“Tired and weak, like after an illness.”

“Do you feel ill, or like you are recovering?”

“Recovering.”

“Unsurprising. You’ve been through an ordeal.” After another moment, Wynne released her magic and opened her eyes to regard him. “We all feared you lost. I can do little for most poisons, especially one that has no antidote. But at Alistair’s stubborn insistence and with his relaying of your identification of the poison, I combined Tabris’s knowledge of the recipe you taught her and Morrigan’s understanding of non-magical toxins, and in the end, I was able to draw out most of the poison before it could cause any permanent damage. But I could not get it all, which is why you have been unconscious for nearly two days.”

Zevran had never thought he would ever owe his life to so many others. As a Crow, he had been dispensable, a tool to be used and discarded when convenient.

“I see.” Though shaken to his very core, he grinned. “Then it would seem that I owe you lovely mages my life now, as well as our fearless leader.”

Wynne’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “You have not forgotten Alistair, surely.”

“I assure you, my dear Wynne,” Zevran said softly. “I could never do any such thing.”

Wynne said nothing for a long moment, and then she sat on the edge of the bed. “Did he tell you where we are?”

Zevran shook his head.

“Redcliffe Castle.”

He did not gasp in surprise, but it was a close thing. Alistair had confided in Zevran, after they left Eamon to recover, that he had no desire to return for a long time, if ever. Returning to the home of his childhood had not been the pleasant reunion he’d hoped for, and seeing such destruction and death had tainted his memories of the place. To say nothing of the obvious pain on his face when Eamon, the man who had gone so far as to send a lonely little boy away to the Chantry to keep the secret of his parentage, had suggested Alistair for the throne without a second thought. Whatever the rest of them thought of Eamon — and Zevran wasn’t the only one of their group to despise him — Alistair clearly loved him, and Zevran would never forget the betrayal on his face in response to Eamon’s “best plan.”

“Indeed,” Wynne said darkly — or as darkly as she ever said anything — at whatever facial expression Zevran had allowed to escape. “Alistair insisted, as it was closeby and a safe place for you to recover. He fought with Eamon behind closed doors after we arrived. We heard raised voices, but he refused to discuss it. Once you were stable, he stationed himself here and would not leave except to relieve himself and pretend to eat a few times.”

Zevran leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes, which burned along with his throat.

Such devotion, from the man he had ignored and rejected. Alistair was a prince, in both blood and bearing, and he deserved far better than the likes of Zevran.

But Zevran was who he wanted.

“There is something else I wish to discuss,” Wynne said, rising and opening a drawer in the bedside table. “This was underneath your armor, tucked into your belt. It seemed important to you, so I ensured its safety.”

And from the drawer, she pulled the rose.

Alistair’s rose.

“He does not know of it,” Wynne said in response to Zevran’s rising panic. “Thus why I kept it hidden.” Zevran’s face must have indicated further concern, because she answered another of his unspoken questions. “I didn’t realize its significance until Morrigan said that Alistair had been fiddling with it and then you picked it up from where he’d left it at the end of your watch together.”

Embarrassed as he was — for both his and Alistair’s sakes — that Morrigan, of all people, knew even some of what had happened between them, he was happy beyond belief that the rose had not been lost.

Zevran held out his hand for it, and Wynne handed it to him. He smelled it, and his eyes stung with tears.

Maker damn his cursed sentimentality.

“I don’t wish to pry,” Wynne said, and her tone was careful now.

Zevran shot her a glare, and she chuckled.

“Yes, I know I have acted like a meddling Chantry sister toward you in the past …”

Zevran’s eyebrows shot skyward — that was perhaps the understatement of the Age.

“But if I may — he has been distraught since you were injured. It is thanks to him that you are here and well. He _adores_ you.”

Zevran bowed his head, thumbing the rose and its deep red, velvety petals.

“And it doesn’t take a scholar to see that you clearly feel the same.” Another glare from the corner of his eye, and she laughed. “Oh, you try to hide it, but it’s in the way you look when you see him, or talk about him, hear him talked about … or step in front of an arrow aimed for him.”

He looked up sharply at that, and her smile was knowing but not unkind. She sat once again on the bed, this time placing a hand on the blankets over his leg.

“I do not know the reason you hesitate, though Maker knows I can think of half a dozen possibilities off the top of my head. But I’ll leave you with this — you nearly died two days ago. He is a Grey Warden in the middle of a Blight.”

“Precisely,” Zevran snapped. “What would be the point?”

He did not appreciate being lectured, and certainly not by a sanctimonious old woman who had spent her entire life trapped in a tower being brainwashed by the Chantry.

“Love?”

He scoffed, even as the very idea turned his blood to ice and set his fingers and the rose they held to shaking. It was not _love_ , this feeling between him and Alistair. It wasn’t.

It couldn’t be.

Wynne hummed, and he hated her for the understanding that dawned on her face and the too kind expression that followed.

“And what of regret?”

Zevran squeezed his eyes shut, but that did not block out the horrific image of Alistair, bloodied and beaten and far too still in his arms, never to grin or joke or laugh again.

The pain that slashed across his heart was intense enough to make him gasp, and Wynne gently squeezed his leg.

“I did not mean to upset you,” she said softly before rising to her feet. “But think on it?”

Zevran shrugged, refusing to look up at her.

“I will have food brought here. Please eat something, even if it’s small. Someone, whether one of us or a servant, will be here or just outside, so if you feel ill, or if you need anything, have them tell me. In the meantime —”

A loud pounding interrupted her and drew their attention to the door.

“Wynne?” came a muffled voice on the other side. “Can I come in now? I ate, you can ask everyone, since they were all watching creepily. Morrigan even made a snide comment comparing me to a mabari.” Another knock. “Hello?”

Wynne turned to Zevran and simply raised an eyebrow.

Without even a second of deliberation, he dipped his head.

He didn’t watch to see if she smiled, but she probably did, the infuriating, prudish old woman.

She crossed the room and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her and preventing Alistair from pushing his way in.

Zevran heard them speaking softly but couldn’t make out the conversation. He took his limited time to open another drawer in the nightstand and find a shirt, which he put on for Alistair’s sake. He placed the rose carefully on the side of the bed blocked by his body, then changed his mind and set it atop the table, visible but out of the way.

He took several deep breaths to calm himself and waited for Alistair to enter, heart pounding so hard he could have sworn they could hear it in the village.

* * *

An eternal minute or so later, the door opened and Alistair poked his head — and only his head — inside.

“Zev? Wynne said you were resting, but … can I come in?”

Zevran tried not to smile. Did Alistair think he’d fallen asleep in the few minutes since Wynne left? Or was he simply being extra considerate?

Either way, it was adorable, and his insides warmed. “Yes.”

Alistair entered, carrying a tray full of delicious aromas.

“I brought you food,” he said, setting the tray in front of Zevran. “Wynne said you should eat. I know you pretty much hate Fereldan food, but I tried to find the things you’d dislike the least.”

The smells seemed to go right to his stomach, which remembered its job and realized it had been slacking. Before Alistair could finish explaining what was what, Zevran had already dug in.

Alistair chuckled. “I guess I succeeded? Or you’re so hungry you don’t care.”

“A little of both, perhaps.”

Alistair smile faded into something softer, and he simply watched, long enough for Zevran to feel self-conscious.

“Ah, forgive my rudeness.” Though his own smile was shaky, Zevran was pretty sure he’d imbued it with his usual amount of roguish charm. “I know how ruthless the Grey Warden appetite can be. Do you wish to join me?”

Alistair blinked, apparently unaware of his staring until now, and shook his head. “No, I’m actually full, believe it or not. It’s just that …” He trailed off into a soft smile. “I’m glad to see you have an appetite. Wynne wasn’t sure how you’d be feeling after …”

Zevran cut him off before he could get too serious. “It would seem I have gained a new appreciation for Fereldan food, if only temporarily. As we say in Antiva, every typhoon brings rain for the vineyards.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“There is always some good to come from the bad.”

Alistair nodded, a slight quirk to his lips. “Like how the Blight really does bring people together.”

Zevran swallowed too much of the unnaturally grey stew at once. He cleared his throat and said, “Ah. Yes.”

They sat in awkward silence for several more bites. Zevran’s heart pounded hard enough it had begun to affect his calm breathing.

“I spoke with the blacksmith today about your armor,” Alistair said suddenly, and Zevran nearly jumped at the loudness of his voice. “Because we can’t be sure that all the poison was cleaned off, Leliana and I thought it best to toss it and start afresh.”

Zevran dropped his spoon. “All of it?”

He was incredibly fond of that armor — curse his sentimentality — or at least certain specific parts of it.

“Well, most of it,” Alistair clarified. “Those Antivan leather boots you love so much are fine, and —”

“The gloves?” Zevran demanded.

“— are right here.” Alistair pulled them from a pocket and held them out. “They’ve been cleaned half a dozen times, so they’re probably in better shape than when we found them.”

Zevran held them almost reverently. They were one of his most prized possessions. They were Dalish and reminded him of his mother’s gloves which he’d loved as a child — and lost, as the Crows allowed no personal possessions.

But they had also been a gift. From Alistair.

After they had slain the faux-Andraste high dragon and collected the Ashes, Zevran had wanted to be alone. The Guardian’s question had brought up memories he did not wish to linger on or answer questions about. When Alistair had approached him, he had been ready to snap some unnecessarily cruel comments at him.

But all Alistair did was present him with a pair of somewhat tattered gloves. Tabris had recovered them in the Brecilian Forest, he’d said, and since they were of Dalish origins, he had asked Tabris for them on Zevran’s behalf. He apologized for not giving them earlier, but he had never been sure how to broach the topic.

“So why now?” Zevran had asked, flexing his fingers inside them and barely keeping the overwhelming memories in check.

“It’s been a rough day,” Alistair had said. “And you look like you could use some cheering up.”

No longer concerned with sub-par Fereldan food, Zevran set his tray aside and pulled on the gloves, marveling at how _new_ they looked.

Alistair had clearly done more than get them cleaned. Several worn spots had been mended, as well.

“Thank you,” Zevran whispered. “Had I lost these, I would have been …” He cleared his throat and attempted to sound like his usual self. “Exceedingly annoyed.”

“And we can’t have that.” Alistair smiled. “I’d rather be fighting alongside a happy, or at the very least content, assassin.” He added softly, “I’m glad we could save them.”

Zevran’s heart swelled with affection and fondness — and perhaps something more that he didn’t want to think about right now — for Alistair. He’d done so much for him, and no matter what feelings existed between them, Zevran appreciated it all.

He took a deep breath to say something like that.

“I have a question for you,” Alistair said, his tone oddly formal. “And before I ask it I need to know you’ll give me an honest answer, so I can —”

“I have always been honest with you.” Though quiet, Zevran’s voice cut through Alistair’s babbling. “I might not have told the full truth, but I have never lied, nor do I ever intend to. Not to you.”

Alistair blinked, taken aback for an instant, and then continued as before. “I need the full truth, this time, Zev. And if the answer is yes, I want you to know that I’ll do whatever you need, okay? Whether it’s staying away, or being normal and friendly, or going back to being close friends, or even —”

“Perhaps,” Zevran interrupted, “you could ask the question first, and then we might address the course of action?”

“Uh, right.” Alistair reddened all the way to his ears. “It might not be an easy question, so if you need a second to —”

“Ask, Alistair, and I will answer.” Maker’s breath, this man would be the death of him, if not by any aforementioned methods, then by giving him a heart attack in suspense.

“Okay. Um.” Alistair cleared his throat, and then he met Zevran’s gaze intently. “Did you step in front of that arrow because — for the same reason you took Loghain’s contract to kill us?” His eyes began to glisten. “Did you — did you want it to succeed?”

Whatever Zevran had been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Of course not.”

“No?”

“ _Absolutely_ not.”

Alistair threw up his hands. “Then why? I’ve been trying to figure it out for two days now, and that’s the only thing that makes sense. Why else would you step in front of a poisoned arrow?”

Zevran gaped at him. “You can think of no other reason why?”

“No.” Alistair’s voice shook now, and he leaned in closer to Zevran. “So _please_ , tell me why.”

Zevran sat back against the headboard with the smallest huff of laughter. It would be sweet, that Alistair did not consider himself, if it were not a sign of Zevran’s own neglect.

“Did you not notice where the arrow was aimed?”

Alistair shook his head. “I heard you yell and looked up in time to see you _slice a Maker-damned arrow out of the air_ and throw a dagger at the archer. I saw the arrow hit you, so I ran to help.” He closed his eyes and motioned directions with his hands. “Wynne was healing Oghren behind me. I sat down to catch my breath. Leliana and Tabris were searching bodies in front of me to the left, and you were to my right. The archer was right in —” His eyes snapped open wide. “The arrow was aimed at me.”

Zevran nodded.

“And you just — _why_?”

“I did not have long to think or act.” Zevran shrugged. “And the idea of you dying by poisoned arrow was … unacceptable.”

Alistair scoffed. “But you dying was?”

“It was not a conscious choice. An instinct, rather.”

Alistair’s expression softened. “To protect your friends.”

“To protect you.”

Alistair’s jaw dropped. “Me?”

His disbelief made Zevran’s heart ache. And gave him the courage to give Alistair the full truth.

“You surprised me the other night, on our watch.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because even Shale says I’ve been incredibly obvious.”

That made Zevran smile in spite of himself. “No, I mean when you asked if you could kiss me. I reacted so poorly because no one has ever asked me that before.”

Alistair stared at him, aghast. “Zev …”

Zevran smirked. “It is not so bad as it sounds. I am usually the one who asks first.”

Alistair’s mouth formed a small _o_. “I see,” he said quietly, looking away.

“You do not,” Zevran said firmly. “Because _you_ are not the reason.”

“I’m not?”

Zevran shook his head. “You … remind me of someone I knew back in Antiva.” He took a deep breath; he’d told no one, not even Tabris, this story. “An elven lass named Rinna. She was special. A marvel. Tough, smooth, wicked. Everything I thought I desired. I thought I had closed off my heart, but she touched something within me. It frightened me.”

Alistair was silent. Zevran wasn’t sure whether he appreciated that or not.

“She was a Crow. The two of us and Taliesen worked many jobs over the years. We three were formidable together, as assassins … and lovers.”

Alistair’s cheeks pinked, but he otherwise did not react.

“Rinna is the woman the Guardian spoke of. Taliesen and I found information on our — my — last mission that she had betrayed us. She denied it. On her knees, with tears in her eyes, she told me that she loved me. I laughed in her face and watched as Taliesen slit her throat.”

He blinked back tears. The horrid things he’d said to Rinna … she spent her last moments sobbing at his cruelty and died thinking he despised her.

“Taliesen,” Alistair rasped. He took a moment, cleared his throat, and continued. “The same Taliesen who —”

“Yes.”

He was silent for a long while, and Zevran did not dare look at him, afraid of what he might find.

“Maker, Zev. I’m so sorry.”

Zevran clenched the blankets in his fists. “Do not be. I killed him. I might as well have killed Rinna. I am not a good man, Alistair, and I do not deserve —”

“Shut up.”

Incredulous, Zevran finally raised his gaze. What he saw surprised him, though given what he knew about Alistair, it should not have.

Alistair sat, elbows on his knees, hair standing on end like he’d run his hands through it, red-rimmed eyes glaring.

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” Alistair said, and Zevran was taken aback by the authority in his voice. “You won’t let me do it, so I won’t let you.”

“That is different —”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Alistair shrugged. “But I won’t listen to you disparage my friend, who put himself between me and a poisoned arrow without even thinking.”

Zevran frowned, but said nothing.

“I’m so sorry, Zev,” Alistair said. “That you were trained to kill and raised to believe that betrayal of the Crows was a capital offense. I’m sorrier that both of those things led to you directly or indirectly killing the two people you’ve ever really loved. And I’m sorriest of all that love frightens you because you don’t believe you deserve it.”

And Alistair reached out and grasped his hand.

Later, Zevran could not recall whether Alistair’s beautiful sentiments, his holding of Zevran’s hand, or merely his presence shredded the last remains of his control. In all likelihood, it was all three, but the specifics didn’t matter.

Because Zevran would always remember that Alistair moved to sit on the bed and wrapped an arm around him when he finally released the long-simmering anguish — which burned easily through the years’ worth of walls he’d built — as agonizing tears.

Tears for Rinna, the amazing woman who had first captured his heart. Tough and yet soft. Beautiful and clever, funny and wicked. Betrayed and wronged by the two men she loved most.

Tears for Taliesen — ah, Taliesen! Brother, friend, companion, lover. They were alike in every way but the one that mattered in the end — that fatal loyalty to the Crows.

Tears for Alistair — a boy sold not for money but for politics, neglected and shamed by nobles and the Chantry alike simply for the hidden identity of his father. A young man trained to kill, not for money but for the Maker, taught that magic was evil and its practitioners should be destroyed. A man who refused that life and grew up to be brave and funny, kind and loving, and _good_ in spite of everything, who took the first lifeline thrown to him and never looked back.

And for the first time since it was tortured out of him as a boy, Zevran cried for himself. For his circumstances, for his cowardice, for his strength when he should have been weak and his weakness when he should have been strong.

And Alistair — kind, loving Alistair — not only cared for him in spite of everything, but cared for him enough to hold and comfort him as he cried like a child.

Because somehow Alistair, whose upbringing was so vastly different from and yet far too similar to his own, seemed to know him to his very core, in ways he didn’t even fully understand himself.

For what felt like Ages, Alistair held him to his chest and rocked him back and forth and ran his fingers through his hair.

And after Zevran had quieted and calmed, Alistair stayed silent as he collected himself once again.

Only when his breathing had finally returned to normal did Alistair finally speak.

“I asked Leliana what _mi amor_ means,” Alistair said softly, his head leaning on Zevran’s. “You’ve said it twice now.”

Zevran felt his face heat and closed his eyes in mortification.

“Zev.” Alistair whispered now. “Are you frightened of me?”

Zevran knew what he was asking, and the way Alistair said it only endeared him to Zevran even further. His use of Zevran’s own phrase describing his feelings for Rinna said far more than the word they were both avoiding.

Face buried against Alistair’s strong, steady chest, Zevran nodded.

For the first time, Zevran noticed Alistair’s breath hitch, and with an ear pressed against his chest, he heard his pulse speed up.

“I can’t promise anything past the Blight,” Alistair said, lips moving against Zevran’s hair. “And I probably shouldn’t promise anything past tomorrow. But right now …”

He pulled away, stronger than Zevran’s grip on his shirt, and tilted Zevran’s chin up until their eyes met.

“Zev.” Alistair spoke his name with a reverence most people reserved for the Chant. “Can I kiss you?”

Zevran answered by pulling Alistair down to him and pressing their lips together.

And Maker. Zevran had kissed a lot of people in his life, but this one, after such denial and anticipation, and with _Alistair_ , tasted the sweetest.

It began slow and languid, and perhaps a bit shy on both sides (though likely for very different reasons). Zevran allowed himself a few moments to accept that he was actually _kissing Alistair_ , and a few more to savor Alistair’s mouth against his, to grow accustomed to the new earthy scent of Alistair.

Then he deepened the kiss, grasping Alistair’s neck tightly, running his fingers — still in his beloved gloves, _braska_ — into the thin hair at its base. Alistair responded more strongly than Zevran could have anticipated, sliding his own hand to grab a chunk of Zevran’s hair, while pulling him so close with his other arm that Zevran actually ended up in his lap.

At that point, Zevran lost track of everything but Alistair’s lips and Alistair’s tongue and Alistair’s hands and Alistair’s arms, clutching him so tight that Zevran began to think he might never let go.

Not that Zevran objected; he knew without a doubt that he was safe in those arms.

Eventually they both came up for air, panting, and though Zevran would have been more than happy to continue, Alistair pressed their foreheads together and whispered, “Maker’s breath, Zev. I thought you were going to die in my arms without me ever getting the chance to — _this_.” He tightened his hold, squeezing Zevran almost to discomfort.

But Zevran was no stranger to discomfort, and he would gladly suffer mildly if it soothed Alistair’s anxiety.

“Promise me you won’t do that again,” Alistair murmured, his tone desperate. “Please. Especially not for me.”

Ah, he would do nearly anything for Alistair, and he almost said as much.

“Only if you could make me such a promise in return, _mi amor_.”

Alistair sighed, and he let his head fall onto Zevran’s shoulder. “I want to. I do. But I can’t.”

His voice broke on the last word, and it was Zevran’s turn to comfort him with a gentle hand stroking his scalp.

After taking several shaky breaths, Alistair lifted his head, and his lovely hazel eyes shone bright. “I suppose that means we — that you won’t want to —”

And oh, the pain that coursed through Zevran’s heart at the thought. He had failed to keep it safe before; now, after experiencing the joy of barely ten minutes with Alistair, it would surely shatter if forced to give him up.

Zevran smiled and took Alistair’s face in his hands, brushing his cheeks with his still-gloved thumbs. “I am afraid it is too late for that. I would sooner rejoin the Crows than sever my heart from its deepest desire.”

The realization that slowly dawned on Alistair’s face was a wonder to behold. His lips rose, as the sun greeted a new day, into a bright grin almost too much for Zevran to look at for long.

And yet, he wished to never look away.

Alistair laughed and swept him into a joyful kiss, which Zevran sank into like a hot bath until his be-gloved fingers yanked him rudely back out.

He growled in frustration — as much at the gloves as at the adorable mewl Alistair gave when he pulled away — jerked them off in two swift tugs, and tossed them onto the nightstand. Alistair’s gaze followed their trajectory, and Zevran reached for his chin to turn him back when Alistair froze.

“Where did you get this?” He had moved the gloves aside gently and grasped the object underneath.

His rose.

“Ah.” Zevran felt suddenly self-conscious, afraid to confess in case he had inadvertently overstepped. “In camp. After you had retired, I found it where you had been sitting.”

Alistair stared at the rose and swallowed hard.

“I apologize if I should not have,” Zevran continued (and Maker, now he was babbling like Alistair). “But I thought it had been intended for me and I … did not wish for your intention to go to waste.”

“I picked in it Lothering,” Alistair said to the flower. “Something so beautiful amidst such despair and ugliness. And I couldn’t leave it for the darkspawn to destroy, so I’ve had it ever since.”

He finally looked up at Zevran, and his expression was more earnest and vulnerable than Zevran had seen it since that night in camp.

“I want you to have it.” Alistair held the rose out to Zevran. “I think the same thing when I look at you.”

Zevran took it but shook his head, confused. “Why?”

Alistair shrugged. “You’ve been that beautiful bright spot for me.”

Zevran’s vision blurred, and he threw his arms around Alistair and kissed him, pouring into the kiss every word and emotion he didn’t have the strength to voice right now.

When they broke apart, Alistair took a few moments to open his eyes, smiling softly all the while. “I’m glad you like it.”

“It is …” There was no other word for it. “Perfect.”

He leaned into Alistair’s chest and closed his eyes, reveling in the calm and safety and exquisite happiness he felt in those strong arms.

Alistair kissed the top of his head. “You need to rest.”

Zevran nodded, a sudden wave of exhaustion overcoming him. “Stay?”

Alistair, sweet and precious man, maneuvered him into bed and tucked the blankets around him with a kiss to the forehead. “I’ll be right here.”

“In the bed with me.”

He didn’t need to see Alistair to know that he froze. “Are you sure?”

Zevran forced his eyes open. “If you are not comfortable, I will not insist. But I will rest better in your arms, _mi amor_.”

Alistair’s answering grin was beautiful. “Then how can I refuse?”

In a few minutes, Alistair had joined him, wrapping his arms around him protectively.

Zevran was almost asleep when Alistair spoke again.

“And when you’re feeling better, I really do want you to teach me how to slice an arrow in half — preferably without the still-getting-hit part.”

Zevran smiled and said, just before he drifted into the Fade, “Anything for you, _mi amor_.”


End file.
